


these things take forever (i, specially, am slow)

by tertulia



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: ? kinda also, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Getting to Know Each Other, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The soulmate AU no one asked for, Trust Issues, as serious as my writing can get, besides - Freeform, but like. kinda, but theyre kinda together, i got really depressed and wrote this to cope, ill add more if i remember, im a grown writer i dont do that anymore, im not sure what to tag, like theyre not boyfriends, pretty ballerina marks for soulmates, sun/moon emblem, thats it i think, this is serious, this time it isnt lowcase oof, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:45:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15368925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tertulia/pseuds/tertulia
Summary: Minho is a moon, delicate and taciturn in everything he does, a hypersensitive trip of having all of his senses filled to the brim with the way he looks, talks, touches, even the way he loves. Chan is a sun, lazily dawning so he can watch as Minho goes home and skips little rocks on his way to his dorm, chocolate brown eyes trained on his neighborhood as he walks alone, surreal and so beautiful it’s hard to not want to give him everything.Or, not everyone trusts someone enough to have a soulmate. Minho and Chan aren't an exception.





	these things take forever (i, specially, am slow)

**Author's Note:**

> look. i got really depressed and i started to write this because i was in a writing slump. its kinda dumb but writing about not being able to write helped a lot more than i thought it would. i have no regrets whatsoever. 
> 
> also! i know its yet another minchan fic and i promise ill do other skz shipps :( its just that theyre my favorite to write bc both of them are my ults! but i swear im planning a chapthered fic with another skz shipp and this is probably my last post before i start this bigger project!!! so uh. look foward to it? it's gonna be cool i swear
> 
> enjoy reading it uwu~

There’s a sinking feeling in Chan’s heart every time he remembers about his clean notebook sitting on top of his bed, spreaded open with paper flying because of the wind coming from his window. A few sun rays danced across the room lightly, the presence nothing but a mere brush of golden amidst one big dimly lit room. Writing music comes from what one feels when they can’t express it with commonly used language, it’s born from within, something Chan has learned to craft with calloused hands and a heavy heart, and the idea of not being able to produce the only thing he’s sure he ever cared enough sits so wrongly at his gut, gnaws at his mind like a spider of self doubt, eight legs dragging themselves over the folds of his brain with cruel timing. He swallows a whimper, walls caving in and getting closer and closer as time passes by, darkness settling over his shoulders like a thousand dark hands grabbing at him.

He’s seen and felt this a million times before, has known for so long that trying to put himself to work while sad can cost him a lot more stress than just letting himself be usually does, but this time there’s much more at stake than just his mental health. He’s upset for a very clear reason, and while fighting it could be a good strategy to get rid of the anxious feeling in his lungs that keeps him trapped in his chair spinning wordlessly, Chan also doesn’t have the strength to actually do it. He’s staring at the ground with his legs resting over his table, neck pain creeping in but not enough to make him change his uncomfortable position, heart frowning in a way that made him feel as if he just chug the whole ocean and is now laying heavily at the edge of an abysm. Chan isn’t afraid to admit to himself that he’s, in fact, very sad, yet the words don’t seem to add up in his stubborn mind, eyes trained to the ground as his head reminds him of all the things he could be doing instead of moping around with a scowl.

Felix would take him out, were he in town. The fact that he isn’t, though, makes Chan a whole more disgruntled now that he’s anxious and in need to do something, even if it’s just sitting in Felix’s bedroom as the other revises his notes to his morning classes and hums every now and then about some historical fact Chan has learned long ago. The sun would cover his freckles and make them golden, his white shirt would be stained with coffee, his hands would be doodled all over, and Chan would rest again, bored out of his mind as he draws silly faces in his palms and waits for him to finish.

Or perhaps he could hang out with Jisung, who would take him to a karaoke and sing sad songs with him until Chan feels better to switch up to his 80s playlist. Even if Jisung wasn’t free, there was still Hyunjin, who would laugh all night in his shoulder and tease him until they both die of laughter. The list was enormous; Chan wasn’t in any way alone, even if his dry mouth and tired eyes said otherwise. His conscience was so aware that if he reached out he’d be received with hugs and good times, so sure of it, but his hands refused to dial the numbers he knows by heart now, instead opting for intertwining his hands. It’s an old habit of his, a bad thing he does to himself when he’s sad and unproductive, something that more than often is found laying in his heart with poisoned confidence, sprinkling rejection and fear over his most pure and reciprocal relationships.

Chan’s frustrated, but even more than that, he’s itching. He’s nervous and jittery, on the edge of his seat, and nothing seems to work to make it better. He tried tea, but it settled bitter in his mouth. He also tried junk food, but the grease made his nose scrunch up in disgust. Watching movies and reading also didn’t help as much as he liked it - it made him feel guilty, because the time he spent could be used to write songs. Everything in his mind has been tried and comprovated useless before, and the warmth on his temples hurting his head still didn’t seem to be nowhere as close to go away as he would like it to.

Minho could help him with inspiration if that was the case, but he’s been acting a bit weird lately. Not exactly bad, because Chan is sure whatever he thinks Minho feels is wrong, but a little bit more guarded, and a lot more tired of hearing Chan talk. He’s been worried, stressed, constantly tense nowadays, the reason behind it being unknown although of Chan’s best efforts. Minho is hard to read, even more so on days like the few last ones they spent together, where Chan doesn’t know when to draw the line and isn’t sure of how much acting Minho has gathered up to seem calm and collected. Annoying him wasn’t an option, though, Chan knows best than to do it and have to deal with the inevitable fear crippling through his lungs and making his insides pure ice every time Minho stares at him wordlessly, thick eyebrows furred as if he’s not sure what to do with that silly, silly thing he has kept for so long in his life.

Despite their age difference, it makes him feel small and used. Whenever Minho talks with less excitement or leaves him on read for too long, Chan feels like a small and shimmery thing the other keeps to distract himself but throws it away when he’s got better things to do. It isn’t Minho’s fault, obviously not, because he’s like that to everyone and works the hardest to make Chan believe his love, knowing fully well that his friend - acquaintance? boyfriend? crush? He isn’t sure of the place he holds in the other’s life - can lack the ability to see the bigger picture when he’s afraid someone will leave him.

Chan is aware of his abandonment issues more than everyone else, and he only confesses it to Minho when the lights are out and they’re laying on the cold ground in the dancer’s dorm, legs and arms tangled as Minho stares up and only listens. On nights like that Chan never feels unwanted, even if the younger keeps quiet and lets him talk most of the time, because he knows that’s Minho’s way to show affection. He would look into Chan’s eyes and hear him talking with a concentrated pout, and then he’d never mention it until Chan speaks up about it again, but if anyone’s lucky enough to know him like the older does, they’ll see how his eyes will come right to Chan when something related to his trauma happens, or how he always seems a little clingier when he notices hidden tears and plastic smiles. One thing that only Chan knows, though, is how Minho lets him linger on his skin more on days when he feels particularly exhausted or upset, arms warmly open and body caving to Chan to do as he pleases, as long as it is what he needs to feel needed again.

It’s a silent agreement that grows a full garden on Chan’s skin whenever he thinks about it,flowers flourishing under his shirt where Minho’s fingers traced unknown paths over milky skin, and it means the world to his troubled heart, a promise of safe and sound in a dangerous jungle of uncertain feelings. His back is turned from his window but he can tell the sun is downing lazily, pictures of Minho’s skin dancing through his mind like one of the younger’s concerts, where everyone seems to be swaying along to the way he dances and sings. Chan closes his eyes and straights his neck, letting his head fall over the chair with a contented sigh, his own pale body getting heated up at the lukewarm feeling of the day’s last rays of sun. It’s cozy, and it makes the atmosphere much lighter and sweeter, grains of dust flying in the air being visible because of the light put against them, tiny earth models flying around Chan’s head like planets orbiting around the sun.

Minho is a moon, delicate and taciturn in everything he does, a hypersensitive trip of having all of his senses filled to the brim with the way he looks, talks, touches, even the way he loves. Chan is a sun, lazily dawning so he can watch as Minho goes home and skips little rocks on his way to his dorm, chocolate brown eyes trained on his neighborhood as he walks alone, surreal and so beautiful it’s hard to not want to give him everything.

The thought of Minho brings a flame of inspiration in his chest, a everlasting feeling of fluctuating in a different universe as he makes his best to follow the dancer’s step through the stars. Chan doesn’t even registers his hands as they write yet another song about Minho in his wrist, too carried away to actually grab his notebook. He’d worry later, think later, sparkling eyes busy pouring out all of Minho to his inked skin, tiny gasps of adoration leaving his mouth as his heart moves around unsteady, but happy nonetheless. There’s that strange feeling of belonging, that clear state of nirvana he always feels, it’s almost as if that moment was meant to be.

Chan didn’t even realize the tiny ballerina dancing in his neck, her tiny feet stepping over stars as she gracefully moved, bound to restless dance her heart out until Minho feels the same as him.

 

 

 

 

Minho doesn’t know what to do when he runs over the same dance routine he’s been trying to get since morning. The moon hangs on the sky threateningly, warning him about all the time he spent here not doing much progress. The practicing room is filled with mirrors and kept shut with no windows whatsoever, wooden floor complaining loudly with Minho’s every footstep. His song reverberates through the room, intense and hitting the walls like a tornado, so overwhelming it made his head spin and throb, pain hammering his skull matching every beat. His sweatshirt had been tossed out by the seventh time he tried to get it right, lying lifelessly on the ground as Minho tried not to slip on it. Shivers run up and down his arms, cold sweat damping his hair and red tinted cheeks making him look and feel unhealthy, realizing so lately that he barely ate. It felt like time didn’t pass at all, like Minho could walk out and it’d still be eight in the morning, Woojin would still be sleeping on their shared dorm and Chan would call him to get a ride for college.

Chan. Minho couldn’t help but pout at his name, upset with how little they’ve been talking but still understanding of his reasons. Minho tended to get a bit harsher, grumpy even, every time a new showcase was near, and this time it wasn’t different. He could feel himself getting more and more judgeful, moody, and he couldn’t blame Chan for getting easily scared, knowing about the older’s anxious nature enough to never get mad in times like these. They’d talk soon and everything would be back to how it previously was, and the sorrow in Minho’s heart would be replaced with the grace that comes only when Chan flashes one of his the-sun-is-jealous kind of grin, dimples showing and facing lighting up completely. Just thinking about it makes him feel happier already.

There’s just something about him that keeps Minho dancing, keeps him fateful and full of hope. Chan is the thought of a chocolate bar waiting for him at home in a particularly shitty day, a comfort for better days, clean sheets and baby perfume. He’s the net that keeps Minho from falling over, the arms who catch him when he’s sure he’s going to crash into the ground with cruel strength, something small and beautiful to keep holding on. These are words he thinks to himself every now and then, when Chan falls asleep in his arm and Minho just lets him despite the fact he hates to sleep glued to someone, lights out and his room so, so quiet, only him and the moon watching over the same dimpled smile and the same small eyes.

Chan is always sure. He’s not always confident, almost never truly trusting, but he’s always sure Minho will make it. He never thinks otherwise, never questions it when Minho meets him with red eyes and hiccups, arms always a little open, inviting but never forcing. It’s a clicking feeling, something the younger can’t put his finger on, how Minho never has to ask - it just comes naturally, the way their arms intertwine while walking, how their hair mingles when they’re sharing a pillow, the little habits they pick up from each other. He finds himself exclaiming english words every now and then, tilting his head oftenly and taking a like even more to the things Chan mentioned to be on his “favorites list”. It’s quite terrifying to see how close and how far they seem to be.

He likes it. Minho is shy, quiet, has a universe of his own at his sleeve, and the paths his mind takes are unsure to everyone but himself, but Chan never seems to mind it. He never seems to care about how he works alone, how he takes care of him in the smallest ways, like the time he found cigarettes on his backpack and kept stealing one every day, saying he had started smoking even though Chan knows Minho hates how it smell and probably hates even more how it tastes. They never mention it, but Minho’s house always has backup headphones for Chan’s clumsy nature, and his bedroom is always clean from his cat’s fur because Chan is allergic. They make it work without words, and Minho couldn’t be more grateful for the other accepting the way he is, silent love confessions and all.

Whenever he thinks about him, Minho understands his sudden change of behavior. Woojin had mentioned it to him earlier, how he seems to be in a good mood every time Chan is around, and how his laugh gets louder and louder when they meet up for movie night. It gets him all fuzzy and warm, the familiarity of it all, but he doesn’t registers it until Chan is waving him goodbye, huddled up in Minho’s jacket as he leaves for his house, ocasional curly hair bouncing with every cheerful step. He goes to bed smiling more often than not, and when he’s with friends, they all tease him about Chan, talking about him like he’s such a Minho thing it warms his heart. Just the feeling of being related to him in any way is some sort of magic. There’s a strange sweetness attached to his thoughts, something he never truly thinks about, but the room is completely empty except for his lean silhouette and the moon is somewhere away from this building, a place Minho would rather be. He’s unsure of his talent, self-conscious as he can get, and he can feel himself craving for something only two things could give him. One of these was unreachable, Chan probably getting the few hours of sleep he can grasp before he leaves to work, what leaves Minho only with the moon as company.

He puts on his sweatshirt again without thinking about it, hands searching through the mess in his pockets to find the keys to the studio’s rooftop, footsteps almost moving on their own as Minho breaks down every barrier, be it mental or physical, to do whatever he wants for the night. There’s something tingling in his back, something he’s not sure he’s imagining or not, but he purposely ignores it, opting for rubbing his eyes as delicately as he can. Minho reaches for the small necklace on his neck, a tiny fake diamond hanging between his collarbones and over his heart, one reminder of Chan even when he’s not around. He holds the plastic with tenderness, fingers pressed against it gingerly as he makes his way out of one of twenty practicing rooms, climbing the stairs with his heart on his hand.

The rooftop is dark, and Minho is still kind of afraid of it, still very terrified of heights, but there’s something he can’t deny about it. It makes him feel majestic, looking up at the moon and seeing her so close, almost as if he could wrap his arms around her if he wanted to. The place is filled with shades of blue and purple, light on his skin as if he were absorbing it, a few empty boxes placed around. There’s the feeling of abandonment, of stable safety mixed with sorrow, something no one would notice if they weren’t in the right time at the right place. Minho feels as if he could scream and no one would hear it, as if he could dance the night away and no soul would be around to see him, and the invisibility is both sacred and terrifying. He sits cross-legged on the ground, eyes darting up to the moon expectantly, hands intertwined as he just stares. Minho does a lot of staring without talking nowadays.

It’s a feeling he knows well. He lets it burn on his skin, lets his hands childishly try to grab the light and lock it in between his lungs, savours the sweet and the sour of being alive and then chews it nonchalantly. Everything is important, but nothing truly mattered when he was alone on the rooftop, a world apart of other people as he swayed to the breeze and closed his eyes with a smile. Minho is chasing the clouds when he breathes, reaches for the horizon and stores it in his pocket, lives the peak of his solitude every time he locks himself away to practice, but no amount of hiding could keep him from being watched by the moon, night after night, her gaze nothing but a knowing warmth on his nape. It makes him feel gentler, softer, hands softly caressing the bruises on his knees and arms coming to wrap around himself securely, an unusual wafe of self love when there’s no one around and Minho realizes he wants to live to his expectatives.

He feels small and silly, one tiny human compared to the vastness of life, love and lust, but there’s drunkenness in the back of his throat even if he didn’t took one sip of alcohol in so long, and it’s an armor of invencible adorning his sure mortality, a shade of braveness stamping his fragility. Minho breathes to himself, lips pursed and cracked. How silly. He doesn’t realize the sunny ballerina in his back, fierce steps draping themselves over his skin while soaked in gold tint, a moving tattoo that will keep dancing and dancing until Minho acknowledges it. It’s soft, and the moving she does matches Minho’s deep sighs and peaceful snores, hands freely in the air as she holds the boy’s entire universe and hopes for Chan’s one to do the same, so their grace could meet somewhere along the way.

 

 

 

 

It takes them four days until they meet again, movie night finally renewed as Minho lets himself get away from the rehearsal’s stress and gives himself the well deserved right of clinging to Chan the whole night. Ever since the rooftop incident, Minho feels himself wishing for his presence more than ever, hands itching to touch and hold, gulping lungfuls of his scent quietly every time he’s near enough. They’re pressed against each other in the couch, Seungmin and Jeongin laying in the mess of covers and pillows they made on the ground as the movie plays on the screen, almost white noise to Minho’s mind, who’s focused more on the collarbones he’s laying on, the scent of soap and sun clogging up his mind. Chan is hot all over, grey sweater fluffy and clean where Minho nuzzles over it, and he’s not sure how to register that he’s truly happy. There’s a comfortable feeling in his body, a warm press in his stomach made by soft hands and sweet smiles, as if Chan’s existence wrapped around him like a blanket, protecting Minho. He feels as though as a child, hiding under his jaw and squeezing his eyes in laughter.

There’s the strange tingle in his back again, smell of growth and nature on his nose as he thinks about it, unconsciously using Chan’s hands to distract his fingers while he tries to understand the reason behind the sudden feeling. He’s felt it before, the way his skin adapted to it much familiar to his own liking, but Minho doesn’t seem to grasp what his body is trying so hard to warn him. He looks at Chan, brown eyes staring at the TV wordlessly,the image reflecting on his irises like a beacon of light, and Minho has to remind himself what was he curious about. He scans his face, traces his long nose and full lips with his eyes and watches as his gaze drops to his neck, a sudden shine at the base making him curious to look closer. Minho gets so near his chin is touching the other’s shoulder, but Chan doesn’t seem to mind as he keeps watching the movie quietly, hands only coming to stroke his back lovingly.

It’s a tiny ballerina. She’s spinning and dancing to the rhythm of Chan’s breathing, feet red as she twirls and jumps, her face not really happy but not sad either. She looks neutral, almost tired in her steps, and Minho curiously lets a puff of hot air hit the skin where she’s dancing, almost like a tattoo. At that, her moves become sharper, stronger, and considerably faster, Chan’s breathing becoming heavier as Minho grazes his fingers on her gold traces, fascinated. It’s so small, so delicate, so fitting to Chan’s pale skin, Minho finds it hard to look away. She lights up when her eyes open for a spin, an inked smile being offered to Minho’s face easily, moves always certain as she goes up and down in her ballerina slippers. He smiles back, full moon smile of his, and Minho swears he sees her small hand wave back.

He’s familiarized with the concept of soulmates. Everybody gets to it in one point of their lives, whether they want a soulmate or not. They’re somehow rare, and their existence is barely documented, as lovers tend to get crazy protective of their ballerina marks once their soulmate is found. Normally, it takes more than just love for them to show up - if anything, they’re not even based on love itself. Minho has known of cases of platonic soulmates, or mother and child having a bond so strongly based on cumplicy they wake up with ballerinas all over their faces. It’s weird to see one so close, considering that its existence is so fragile. Chan’s ballerina is meant to dance forever if his soulmate doesn’t acknowledge they can’t be apart, her delicate feet bound to break and rot in sign of rejection.

“Minho?” Chan whispers, looking down at Minho with confused eyes. His head is tilted a bit, ballerina covered slightly by the healthy fat on his neck, soft hair falling in his eyes. The dancer smiles, hands coming to touch the pale skin.

“Sorry, hyung. You just… Have something in your neck.” Minho doesn’t know how to explain to him, isn’t even sure Chan knows about it. “You might want to check it out in the mirror.”

Chan stares at him, a bit dumbfounded, but lets Minho take his hand and guide him to the bathroom, thumb softly fondling his knuckles. The hallway is dark, and they have to be careful not to step in Seungmin’s hands, arms sprawled open on the ground as Jeongin lays on his stomach, completely unbothered by their hyungs moving. Seungmin looks at them questioningly, but Minho shushes him with a shrug, pointing to the bathroom. Chan follows him blindly, so trusting it aches Minho’s heart, eyes always drained on his face as he opens the bathroom door.

Chan watches his neck in the mirror, searching for something so unusual that made even Minho get blown away, eyes going comically wide as they get to the golden mark. He doesn’t look surprised, Minho notices, just a bit taken aback by the prettiness of it. Minho can’t blame him for not being super excited about soulmates, even if it’s something he’s been dreaming about ever since he was a small child. It’s not like he felt like he needed one to be happy - Minho just liked to think that the idea of having someone there for you, someone picked by the cosmos themselves at that, was simply lovely to keep. He smiles, not because he feels like it, but because Chan is about to experience the best feeling in the world. And he’s truly happy for him.

“Oh.” That’s all the older says, brown hair moving slightly when he turns his face to look at Minho. “What’s that?”

Minho laughs, a bit dried up but not enough for Chan to notice. He doesn’t look like he does.

“It’s- Uh, it’s a ballerina mark. You don’t know what it means?” The little ballerina is dancing softly, her hips swaying a bit as she keeps moving, unbothered. Her feet seem a bit hurt.

The older shakes his head.

“It means you have a bond so strong you’re soulmates. It’s like… It’s based on trust. It isn’t exactly romantic. Could be anyone.” Minho wraps his arms around Chan’s middle, chin resting on his shoulder as the other keeps looking, curious.

“Oh, cool. Why is she dancing?” Minho giggles, arms tightening as Chan places his hands over his.

He feels a wave of tenderness hit him, overwhelmingly so, and Minho buries his head on Chan’s shoulder. “To warn you. She’s going to dance restlessly until you and your soulmate recognize you can’t be apart.”

Chan hums, quietly inspecting the ballerina’s behavior on his neck. He’s not exactly sure how he should feel about it; If he were to he honest, he cares more about Minho clinging to him than he cares about the mark. It’s nice, the way he wraps around Chan and fills up every empty space. There’s no soulmate in his mind when he sinks deeper into Minho’s arms.

“That’s… Nice. I guess.” He shrugs slightly, resting his head back in Minho’s shoulder. “What if we don’t, though? And how do I recognize that? How will she know?”

Minho shakes his head in exasperation. “You will. You’re- You’re meant to recognize it. You won’t even notice when it happens, but she will. She’ll stop dancing and transform into a normal tattoo, but it takes a bit of time, I think.”

Chan doesn’t seem too trusting about it, eyes wary as he raises an eyebrow. Minho smiles, but it doesn’t really reaches his eyes. “That’s so vague, Minho. It could be anyone, and it could take years. Am I supposed to spent my whole life searching for my soulmate?”

That Minho doesn’t know how to answer. He read stories about people who go crazy trying to find their soulmates, people who never got even close to finding it, even one girl who had to discover the ballerina mark matching hers was six feet under the ground. It could be anyone at any given time, and it really wasn’t something to rely on. The skin on his back seems to start throbbing again, but Minho pays it no mind, focused on helping Chan.

“I don’t know. I guess you’re just supposed to live your life until it happens, you know?” the words feel selfish on his mouth. I can’t do anything to help you.

“Hm. ‘Kay, I guess?” Chan isn’t convinced, but Minho can’t give him more than that. Whoever his soulmate is, they should come when time tells them to. It happens naturally. “What if my soulmate is dead? Not an angsty question, I’m just curious about the chances of them being a vampire.”

Minho laughs, and this time it’s honest. His laugh sounds witchy, pleasing to Chan’s ears, and he smiles wildly, dimples matching Minho’s crinkled eyes. “Shut up!”

He doesn’t answer if there’s a chance of them being dead. Chan doesn’t mind.

 

 

 

 

They spent the rest of the night as if nothing happened, arms linked together while they finish the movie, not much being said except for a few eventual gasps of surprise caused by the movie’s plot. Minho has kept his eyes on Chan for about ten minutes or so, looking for a sign of change, something that gave out how he truly felt about having a soulmate. His eyes were the same kind and playful ones they always had been, his smile wasn’t even close to be fake and by all means he ignored completely the mark on his neck. Chan didn’t even brushed his fingers over it, let alone tried to look again to make sure it really was a ballerina mark - He just seemed to not care. It placed weirdly in Minho’s mind how someone could not care at all about having a soulmate, how Chan could be so normal about this. Perhaps Minho is too much of a hopeless romantic, too concentrated in love stories to actually think about how living one in real life would be, but he’s not going to pretend that his world would never be the same if he found out he had a soulmate.

Chan noticed his frowning, Minho oftenly more in his head than not, and reached out to smooth the middle of his eyebrows. He smiled, half jokingly and half confused (Sad? Upset? It’s hard to know). “I wish I could be with in your head, you know? Then I’d understand why you’re always stuck there.”

Minho smiles, laying his head on Chan’s hand and nuzzling his nose against it. Chan seems to soften at that, a hand coming to tuck Minho’s hair against his ear. It’s soft like this, every time they do those tiny confessions that are meant to be disguised as silly and unimportant, because the dancer always keeps them the closest to his heart. They’re imaginary stones attached to the necklace Chan gave him, resting over his heart where they belong in the first place, so real they’re almost palpable. Everybody has pretty things to hold on to when things get too rough; Minho’s were Chan’s words.

“You’re always in my head, though.” He means it to be cheesy, to make Chan wrinkle his nose in distaste and giggle a bit. He does, partially, but his eyes are grown wilder than before, shining stars hugging in the brown vastitude. Minho is moonstruck, but it isn’t new to him.

“I want to know how I am in your head. You always seem to be studying me.”

Minho is. He’s always picking up Chan’s little habits and analyzing his words, watching intensely to understand him better, and it’s not something he’s going to start to feel ashamed of. It sounds awkward to say it out loud, but there’s no such thing as knowing too much of Chan. Minho wants to have it all, to collect everything he can and pick up every single lock Chan puts between them. It’s just how he always has been. “I like studying you. Can’t I?”

Chan gives him a look, but nods his head anyways and turns to the TV, arm wrapped around Minho’s shoulders squeezing him a bit. No words needed. Minho loves him.

Movie night passed as quickly as it came, Seungmin and Jeongin kissing their cheeks goodbye as they waited for Jeongin’s mom to pick them up at Chan’s building. They were good company, always bright and cheerful, something Minho has learned to appreciate despite being really quiet most of the time. Chan insisted for Minho to stay the night, and the younger had the decency to not cave in just because Chan flashed him a pretty grin, but because he truly missed waking up to his sleepy antics. They were on the living room’s floor, lying where Seungmin and Jeongin previously were, Chan’s balcony door half closed as the wind made them wrap up in blankets, staring at the ceiling and exchanging a few words with linked hands. It’s comfortable, even if Minho’s back is sort of shivering and his head hurts a bit. Chan lets him get the warmer blanket, allows Minho to throw his legs over his and lets him talk when he feels like it. It’s just one of those nights where Minho feels like the world lives right in his eyelids, not much more than a small island of thoughts and feelings. He’s lost in his mind again, but Chan is also lost in his, so they travel together, fingers laced firmly even if Minho has no idea where Chan’s mind travels to. He’s just happy to be involved.

“Minho.” Chan calls for him in a breathy voice, laying on his side so he can watch Minho better. He has one arm supporting his head, glasses pending on his nose and eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. Minho looks fierce, even more than he looks beautiful, and Chan finds a smile forming at the corner of his lips. “Do you really care about the soulmates thing?”

Minho stops to think about it. Does he? It sounds so far from him now, with the quiet atmosphere and Chan’s small voice. He’s not sure enough, not at his best thinking efficiency, but the older boy is staring at him like he wants to know Minho’s whole world. It’s somehow close to how he felt at the studio’s rooftop, a life apart from that moment but still so real on his arms. Chan makes him feel exactly the same as the moon - everything was important next to him, but nothing truly mattered.

“I think I do. I used to read about it every day, when I was younger.” He squeezes Chan’s hands a bit, placing it over his heart. An habit. Minho feels the words forming on his throat even before his tongue says it, curious and relentless at that, mind stubbornly reminding him of Chan’s reaction (or the lack of it) to having a soulmate. “Do you?”

Chan smiles. “Do I what?”

“Do you care? About soulmates, that is.”

Minho turns his head to look at him, watches amusedly as he gets lost in the engineers of his head. Chan tends to move his hands a lot while he thinks, but he seems to be comfortable enough to chose to keep quiet, only playing with Minho’s pinky every now and then. He’s in deep thought, mouth murmuring a feel words as he debates what he feels, and Minho is deeply, madly, utterly charmed by him and his efforts to always give Minho a good answer. The conversation never seems to die with Chan.

“I don’t think so.” He starts, rubbing his eyes tiredly, thin fist appearing in Minho’s line of vision, cutely so. The dancer finds himself nagging at his mind; How can someone’s fist be cute? “It’s too uncertain. I know who I love and who makes me happy. I know I love you, and Felix, and my mom, and my friends. I feel like it’s enough.”

Minho lets it sinks in, savours his answer quietly. He’s always honest and bare for Minho to see, it’s sort of horrifying. The younger doesn’t feel pressured to do the same, instead having the certainty that he wants to open up his mind and heart to Chan, just doesn’t knows how yet. But, perhaps he needs a place to start. “I think it means so much to me because I’m always very afraid of rejection once I share what I feel.” The words spill from his lips easily, quicker than he intended them to, and it’s an awkward take to his heart, but Minho has no way to turn back now. “And if I had a soulmate… I think I’d share things with them more oftenly, because they’d be one hundred percent sure to understand it, right? They wouldn’t leave.”

Chan burrows further into his pillow, small smile on his face nothing but beautiful. His eyes are understanding as Minho speaks, the moon reflecting on him so easily he can’t bring himself to care about anything else but the way Chan is staring at him, like he wants to swallow every single tear and every single doubt Minho ever had. His eyes were more than sure, more than love itself, perfectly crafted to hold just the right amount of tenderness Minho can receive without feeling scared. Chan’s love is broken down in pieces for him, adapted to Minho’s careful heart, something he treasures the most when he’s scared to tell him what he feels. He’s reliable, inviting, Minho doesn’t even registers when he gets closer.

“I already feel like that when I’m with you, Minho. For all I know, my soulmate can be easily neglected because I love you more than I love them.” Chan says it too surely, too confident, his voice doesn’t waver and his eyes never wander down. There’s no questioning when it comes to him.

Minho tries to register what he’s feeling so it doesn’t slip away in the flood of emotions his heart is whenever Chan opens his mouth. He’s happy, that’s the first thing he checks on his list - He’s happy about what Chan said, he likes it. Minho clings desperately to that, mind searching around his body to understand what is it that brings light to his head and warmth to his cheeks. He doesn’t know how to let go of Chan, doesn’t know what to say to himself to argue his heart out of the constant drowning he’s into. He’s lost, lost between Chan’s collarbones and wrenched in the small mole in his jaw, so small next to his feelings it sounds dumb to fight against it. Minho doesn’t name feelings, prefers to let his mind disbrave the poetic side of life, registers it all with metaphors and tiny mundanisms of his, but Chan is always obvious to his heart, he never leaves him hanging and his thoughts are forever sharp and honest. It’s easy to understand someone for the first time.

“You would choose me? Over your soulmate?” Minho is sure he looks bewildered, jaw dropped to the ground as he stares wordlessly. It’s rare and strange, settles so right in his lips he can almost feel Chan’s love emanating from where he’s laid down, and Minho prays that his love shows as much as that.

Chan answers him immediately, no hesitance sitting on his lips. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” And it’s just that. No sound of bells ringing, no flying birds or orchestras. Just them, hands intertwined under the covers and the moon, as simple as that.

Chan never minded his lack of reaction. Never questioned when Minho kept silent when they met Chan’s friends on the Han river while on a date. He seemed to love Minho’s silence as much as he loved Minho’s words, seemed to adore him for his night as equally as he loved him for his stars.

They remain quiet after that, a few droplets of water racing through the balconies transparent door warning that it was about to rain, the soft sound of drops hitting the door lulling Minho to a state of trance, eyes shut but not quite enough, a few points of light being seen between his long eyelashes. He rolls over, silent, and gets closer do Chan, placing his head under the older’s chin, not much different from a kitten seeking comfort in their owner’s arms. Chan doesn’t comment it, only wraps an arm around Minho’s shoulder and presses a chaste kiss on his head, eyes trained on the door, watching incessantly as rain poured down on Seoul, dark blue-ish sky getting grayer as the temperature gets colder. He feels like a statue, kept held down by his own comfort when Minho snuggles impossibly closer, already fast asleep and murmuring every now and then, habit of talking in his sleep familiar enough to make Chan close his eyes. He listens to the rain, to the sound of Minho breathing, lets the world consume itself in flames as long as he has that moment. It’s peaceful, but everything with Minho is.

Chan drags the moment through his fingers, lets it rest all over his body, waits no time to lock the memory securely in his head. He’s in peace, body used to it by now, holding Minho like he’d hold a tiny butterfly on his fingers, as delicate as he can get. No amount of destiny sprinkled love can make him let go of what he has now, he’s sure of it. No one in the world can make him let go of Minho’s crooked fingers and messy grin, of his soft hair and big flannel shirts, and he tells himself that, holding on for dear life to the love he keeps at the tip of his tongue. Sleep gets to him peacefully, the hands of unconsciousness gently swaying him to dreamland, low whistling a lullaby that dances with the little ballerina on his neck, her presence almost unnoticeable if she didn’t exude enough light to cover them both in a half moon atmosphere. It felt like love, home and all those little sins Chan commits whenever he’s with Minho.

 

It gets lonely quick enough after that. Minho leaves to dance practice in the morning with a kiss on his forehead, quiet in his footsteps as he always is, leaving Chan alone on the mattress, memories flooding his senses. He’s not moving, doesn’t feel like he’s breathing either, only letting what happened last night wash over him like the sea cleaning up the sand, eyes open and staring at the white ceiling calmly. He needs to get up and eat breakfast to leave to work, and then come back for lunch and leave again to have his classes, exhaustion of the day already piling up in his shoulders as he waits for motivation to come. Chan is still warm from where Minho slept against him, sweater wrinkled and too hot to bare in Seoul’s summer. It’s hot, contrasting to last night’s rain, and he fights for freedom, throwing his blankets away to get up. His roommate, a freshman who just moved from Malaysia, was visiting his parents for the week, which left Chan alone in his tiny apartment, the feeling not particularly pleasing but not bad either. He’s skeptical about it, tries to think about the few times he had to be alone for more than two days - Back in Australia, his mom was too overprotective to let him at home alone, even if her business trips were considerably short.

His feet are cold from where he places them on the ground, small shiver running up his body, fighting through the undeniable heat. Chan opens his balcony door completely, sun rays gathering light on his face almost immediately, Seoul city outside of his dorm waking up in shades of yellow and orange, peach coloring the sky as the sun rose from the hills, little to no clouds transiting around warm colors. He looks down in his tiny porch, watching the street gently starting to get movement again, a few cars passing by every now and then. Shops and restaurants are already opening, and Chan’s heart gets a bit warmer at watching Jeongin’s grandma bakehouse opening, her grey hair and old clothing being seen from the third floor. He gets out to find his phone on the kitchen table, nine a.m displaying on the screen, a warning to start getting ready to leave soon. If he gets successfully ready by 9:30, he could walk Jeongin to school, paths only changing when they get to his work, a few blocks before Jeongin’s college.

He gets ready slowly, getting joy from the sleepy mood he’s in while changing clothes and eating breakfast, eyes barely open as he takes sips from his coffee and a few spoonfuls of cereal. It’s nice like this, reminiscing Minho’s presence as he lazily wakes up, small apartment more than enough to keep him safe as he waddles around the house. Chan gets to the street by the time Seungmin and Jeongin stop to get ice cream before school, their yellow uniforms visible from a distance as they bicker to see who gets to order first. Chan notices the lack of a familiar tall boy between them, Hyunjin probably already having his summer break as he’s from other school, and approaches them with a smile, hand on both their backs as he announces his presence.

“Shouldn’t both of you go to school instead of buying ice cream?” he asks, no real bite in his voice as he watches Seungmin take a wrinkled money bill and hand it to the cashier.

“We _are_ going to school.” Jeongin answers matter-of-factually, adjusting his uniform. “It’s just ice cream.”

Seungmin hums in agreement, starting to walk as they follow him, too focused on his dessert to actually add a sentence to Jeongin’s. “Hyung, have you seen Minho since last night? He told me just now that he was going to the doctor.”

Chan arches one eyebrow, ears almost peeking up at Minho’s name, curious.

“Yeah, he slept over and then left for dance practice. He didn’t tell me anything about a doctor, though?” he fears looking as confused as he feels, playing it cool as to not scare the youngers with how preoccupied he is.

If Minho goes to the doctor, then it’s serious. He knows the younger is a scaredy cat who never would go to the hospital if he weren’t obligated to, and the last time Minho disappeared he came back one month later with an injured ankle and a teasing smile, eyes filled with painful tears as he limped his way to Chan’s apartment. Minho almost never tells him when he’s in pain, always worried that he might annoy him, and never truly trusting enough to share it the moment it happens. Chan sighs.

“He didn’t tell me why, just texted me to let you know. Said he had no time to explain it when he left.” Seungmin just shrugs, eating his ice cream happily.

Chan’s day passes like a blur, handcuffed to the thought of Minho being seriously sick. When he’s making drinks at his part time job, he’s still thinking about Minho. When his coworker huffs at him for being distracted, he’s still thinking about Minho. When he cooks noodles for lunch, he’s still worried about Minho. Even when he raises his hand on his class and gets yet another right answer, half of his mind is still where Minho is, trying to search through all the things the dancer could possibly have and everything he could do to make it better. Walking home feels numb, welcoming his roommate, Jisung, back is as tasteless and dissipated as smoke, texting Changbin is barely registered as he waits for a text message from Minho, anything that he could know about him. He asks Seungmin, but the other has no good news or any news at all as to where Minho is or how he’s doing. Days come and go uselessly, Minho’s words as absent as dried up sea, no words in sight, an endless drought to his heart.

Chan knows better than to reach out. Minho just does that - He disappears. Like water escaping through his fingers, the younger gets away and takes his time to come back. Reaching out is dumb, stupid, because Minho would answer days later and the conversation just wouldn’t go on. Chan has to learn to live without him all over again, but he’s sad to say that he’s used to it by now; Minho always getting lonelier and lonelier but never allowing people to come near. Chan still gets the irrational fear of being left behind, of not being important to Minho, unneeded and therefore just convenient, but he tries to shake it off as much as he can, clinging more to friends and forcing himself to go out more, having fun so his vicious thoughts go away. Weeks pass like years, no words coming from Minho as Chan plays their last night together over and over, tiny ballerina becoming one of the few things about Minho he doesn’t find endearing. Chan gets annoyed at her on the worst days, rubs the skin angrily on the shower as he tries to forget the way Minho seemed so fascinated by it, but she never stops dancing. He has seen she trip over herself, has watched her eyes leak golden tears as her feet broke and got better every night, but her pain mirrors Chan’s, somehow, so nowadays he tries to be gentler with her, breathes softly so she doesn’t have to dance so hard to it, and his behavior makes him strangely proud about how gentle he can get when he knows someone is going through the same as him.

It’s hard, but the other points of his life are thriving, so he tries not to mind that much. Felix got back from his trip, tanned and with a few gifts for his friends, and he’s getting really good grades as he has more time to study now that his boss gave him a well deserved vacation. He’s no longer in a slump while trying to write songs, and he just has started going to the gym - everything is great, even if at the end of the day he feels miserable. Chan feels dumb to wait, dumb to keep hoping that every text can be Minho, hates how he refuses to give up. He doesn’t want to be overbearing because Chan knows Minho too much to think he does what he does because he doesn’t love Chan, knows his head too clearly to believe he won’t come back. It’s just that all the waiting clings to him at night, when he’s lying on his back and his hands travel to the little ballerina in his neck, skin around it scratched up and red all over, hurt everywhere but in the small dancing thing. She never stops dancing, never goes away, and every time Chan tries to scrape over the golden tint it never works, her mindset being too strong to be hurt. She’s restless, stubborn, and always waiting. Chan understands that now.

He sleeps, but dreams never come in color. He eats, but the food is as tasteless as summer rain at midnight, eyes closed as he reminisces the way they fell asleep next to each other on the ground, even cold, heartless tiles being comfortable next to Minho. Chan tries to swim through this sea of sadness as faster as he can, and even if he ends up in the same place when the waves hit him, no amount of effort can make him stop swaying over the sparkling water, letting himself go completely in his hopes and fears. The bottom of Minho’s ocean is as deep as his eyes, full of lost kingdoms and abandoned ships, and the more Chan tries to swim the further he gets to the deep end. It’s drowning, and he’s sure he’s done it a thousand times before.

When Minho finally comes back, there’s no sea in his eyes. There’s no life on the way he almost crawls his way to Chan, eyes sunken into his skull and lips cracked as he cries, trembling body resting over Chan’s couch as if his life depended on it, clutching the same blanket Chan uses to sleep every night. Minho feels miserable under his fingertips, so thin and tired he’s not sure if he’s really there, burying himself in Chan’s shoulder as he sobs, breaking down rather quietly. Chan does the best he can to not scare him off, eyes big as he tries to cover Minho’s body with his as much as he can, hoping for a flicker of light in Minho’s face. It’s once again one of his useless moments, where he never feels like he doesn’t knows anything about Minho at all. Every time he feels close to the younger, it seems like he discovers a whole longer path than he expected to, feet aching to get somewhere with him. Chan stays there, lips shut and pressed into a thin line, not knowing what to do or what to say after so long without Minho’s presence. His feelings remain untouched and untamed, on fire where Minho’s head lays on his chest, but his hands don’t know their way around when Minho clings to him.

Chan clears his throat, unsure. Minho cries quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.” That’s all Minho answers, voice shaky and hands desperate. Chan is curious, anxious, worried, but his heart doesn’t snap out of its monotone situation, already used to not having Minho around. It feels like some kind of protection to when Minho leaves again.

“I’m here. You can talk.” His words sound a bit harsher than he intended them to be, but Minho doesn’t seem to mind. He laces his fingers on Minho’s back, apologetic.

Minho breathes harshly on his neck, buries his nose in the ballerina mark and whimpers like it burns him. Chan has seen him cry a million times or so, has held him in his despair much more than he can count, but this time it’s as if Minho’s pain is on the other side of the river, far away from Chan to touch. He cries, unsure, scared, and Chan doesn’t have the power to take his sadness away. He wants to, wishes he could bottle Minho’s tears and drink it all in one gulp, wants to suffer the other’s pain and to heal his wounds. Chan doesn’t talk, just stays still as Minho orbits around him, dances around his corners and eclipses to be closer, and it’s as selfless as that - Chan has the wait figured out by now.

“We’re soulmates. I found a ballerina mark on my back and she stops dancing momentarily every time I think of you.” Minho says, voice small and hurt as he fiddles with Chan’s sleeve.

Oh. _Oh._

He’s confused. The soulmates thing seems to bother Minho too much, to go through his mind too much, and Chan doesn’t get how he lets one simple detail of life control all the others, but lets him be anyway. He mentioned wanting one before, so why does Minho looks as if he just saw a ghost?

“Isn’t that… A good thing?” Chan drags the words through his tongue carefully, speaks delicately.

Minho sobs. “It should be.”

He cries again, voice so quiet Chan is scared that he’ll forget he’s hurting. Minho is so brave, so strong, seeing him breaking down is like watching a science documentary: He’s curious and anxious about what will occur next, because it never happened so freely before. “Do you trust me?”

Chan regrets asking it the moment his words leave his mouth. Knowing Minho enough, he’d get guilty no matter what his answer is. Minho suffers the most from not being able to trust Chan, always worried that it means something is wrong with him, and asking him about it makes Chan feel completely insensitive. His words were thrown in the air already, their curves and swerves going through the atmosphere as he glances at Minho worriedly. He looks speechless, gulping so hard it’s shown on his Adam’s apple, and Chan backtracks easily, eyes softening. Minho answers, but he doesn’t seem so sure. “I try to.”

“Then it’s enough.” Chan doesn’t question it further. “Do you mind telling me what’s wrong?”

Minho’s eyes look up at his, cat-like irises burning holes through Chan’s plain brown ones. He’s once again intimidated by the way Minho’s eyes are full blown and drawn delicately, deep chocolate pulling him in slowly, almost a siren’s voice to his unprotected ones, its corners drawn along his eyebrows and perfectly dragged through his sun kissed skin. They eat Chan up too easily, bare him to his most honest state, a key for every lock in his brain. He’s lost, as usual as it is, lets Minho blink and dry his tear stained cheeks as Chan watches his eyelids and lashes. There are a hundred or a thousand things he wants to say about his eyes, but he’s once again kept hostage by his endearment.

“All this time I’ve not been around, I’ve been searching for how to make soulmate bonds stronger.” Minho gets a bit far from him at that, mouth closed shut after his words, gathering information in his brain to explain it better. Chan’s mouth falls agape. Minho never tells him what he does when he disappears. “It seems… It seems that if one of the parts don’t commit enough, the marks fade away. And mine is already weak.”

Minho looks at him expectantly, chewing on his nails as he waits for a bigger reaction. Chan isn’t sure of what he’s supposed to feel, yet again - Minho seems devastated with the news, deadly worried so, and Chan can’t help but let confusion flare up in his mind. “Oh. Mine is not fading.”

The dancer whines. “It’s because you trust me too much! Mine is barely seen if not too close. Can’t you see the problem here?”

“That… I get to have a mark brighter than yours?” Chan almost giggled at Minho’s annoyed expression, were it in another context.

“That if both our marks fade away, it’s not just because I’m scared to trust you.” Minho flinches at his last sentence, the words hurting a bit. Chan blinks, unbothered. “It’s because you’ll stop feeling like I’m worth the trouble. It’s bound to happen.”

“Minho…” he calls, breath caught in his throat. “Do you think I’ll stop loving you because of a soulmate mark?”

Minho shrugs, frowning. “I knew you’d say that. It’s not just about soulmates, hyung. How can you- You stay for so long with me telling you barely anything, running away oftenly, and clinging to you as if nothing happened. Eventually, I’d hurt you.”

Chan laughs, no humor in it but still a laugh nonetheless. “You’ve already hurt me before and I didn’t stop loving you.”

The air gets thicker, memories from the last month dancing in it as they both stare.

“I know.” Minho half smiles sadly. He grabs Chan’s hands after a small moment of silence. “Let me make it up to you, hyung, please. All this time away - I swear I meant good. I’ve been making myself ready to trust again, you made me want to work on it. I’ve been getting better, I’ve truly been.”

Chan isn’t sure where all this came from. He never gave a second thought about their relationship, never really blamed Minho for being the way he is. He’s been hurt before, knows how the wait for him burns his eyes and takes his breath away, but he’s become too accepting of it to even get mad at Minho. He leaves yet comes back, he’s insanely quiet but Chan is the one who knows the biggest amount of stupid little things about him, and that’s how it goes. It’s like eating crumbs for years - Eventually, he learned how to get full with it.

“You don’t have to ask, Minho. You do whatever you want, I told you I’m not leaving.” But even his voice sounds too dry, too distant. He doesn’t recognize it spilling from his lips.

Minho gets closer, hands holding Chan’s securely as he narrows the world between them, noses touching. It’s quick, how he seems to gain enough confidence to look into Chan’s eyes, and he felt the need to part ways as if their glances burned - but they were already halfway there, lips almost touching, Minho knew running away wasn’t an option anymore.

He kisses him.

It’s not the first time. They’ve had their few kisses before, not exactly rare but never the same. Chan knew Minho’s sad kiss, when he presses his lips against the other’s before running away. He also knew Minho’s happy kiss, like when he won his first showcase and Chan was there to greet him. There are lots of variations of those, going from lustful to upset to angry to soft. However, none of those felt as real as how it feels now, Minho insistently pressing his lips against Chan’s, desperate and calm all at once. His lips taste salty like the tears he just cried, a bit of hesitance and fear sprinkled over excitement. It takes the older a minute to snap out of it, hands resting on the other’s knees as Minho held his fists delicately, not giving Chan a chance to breathe and diving in further. Their teeth clack somewhere along the road, and Minho almost takes a piece of his lower lip while biting it, hands unusually warm and squeezing his wrists like he wants to hold on to them forever. Chan has to retrieve his hands with his own, placing them on his sides as he kisses Minho’s cheek tenderly, registering why it feels so different now. Minho took the initiative and melted on the kiss, didn’t hold back and fully embraced every feeling and every touch he craved for. He’s always been beautiful, but Chan loves Minho the most when he’s as brave as this.

“I’m proud.” He whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth and letting go slightly, Minho’s hands still resting on his body. Chan watches him, a smile plastered across his face as the younger looks down to his chest, flustered and giddy. He looks done for, cheeks red and lips swollen, the epitome of how love should look like. Chan wants to paint his own lips red and leave kiss imprints all over his face.

“For what? I haven’t even started yet.” Minho asks, smile growing impossibly bigger. There’s a flash of bubbly Minho in his eyes when he says it, something that appears every now and then, when Minho is happy enough to talk freely. It’s a nice start.

“For trying, I guess.” Chan leans in again, a few inches closer, and just stays there, breathing over Minho’s lips. “I can tell it’s been hard, Minho. You look so thin.”

Minho has the decency to look embarrassed. His hand comes up to pick at his nape, shameful. “Ah, that… I…. It’s because I’ve been practicing a lot. My life without you has been dance practices, therapy and a few chinese takeovers with Felix.”

“You were seeing Felix this whole time?” Chan asks, shocked.

Minho giggles at his expression, clinging to Chan even more as the older tries to let go, betrayed. Talking about the time he spent without Minho still stings a bit, but he shoves it to the back of his throat, focusing on the way Minho’s eyes sparkle when he laughs.

“I made him promise not to tell you! I wanted to come back sure that I had made the right decision, and back then I wasn’t. Felix helped me a lot with my feelings, even when I was really struggling.” Minho wraps his arms around Chan’s shoulders, almost forcing him to bury his face in the crook of his neck.

This Minho is something different. He’s still soft around the edges and smooth, still quite silent in the way he moves, but there’s something undeniably strong behind his features. His breathing is harsher and his words are louder, his arms are ten times stronger and he kisses Chan hardly, just like he told him he wished he could months ago. Chan loves Minho when he’s shy and quiet, loves the way they kept their tiny world going without bigger confessions, but he decides this Minho is the one he likes the most. He’s brave, fierce, cuts through Chan’s heart like a bullet and it should hurt but it doesn’t, because it isn’t the first time Minho loved him as hard and fast as a gun. Chan can tell Minho’s trying his best not to run away as he buries his face on his neck, Minho’s cologne at the tip of his tongue. He smiles.

His mind speaks up gently, a line of a poem he read years ago coming to his brain as he lets the atmosphere sink in to his hands. Chan whispers it to Minho’s collarbones. “Softly, like how you left me.”

Night turns to morning as simple as that, laughter and music adorning the house as they talk the rest of the day away, ballerinas growing stronger and quieter, feet resting for the first time in a while. Minho’s is still faded away, gold mixing with honey colored skin whenever Chan stares at his naked back, hands coming to touch gingerly the mark mirroring his own.

“Hardly, like how I love you.” Minho whispers in his hair when they go to sleep that night, fingers intertwined and matching soft smiles. Chan barely shows reaction to it, only squeezes Minho’s hand softly and lets out a yawn, but the dancer knows somewhere in his heart that Chan already saw those words coming.

 

 

Old habits die hard, but Chan can tell Minho is trying his best to work on his trust issues. He’s undeniably more open about his feelings and it’s crazy how safe he seems to feel every time they see each other. He’s still quite a scaredy cat, never really forgets his urge to runaway every now and then, but now he talks about it - and it’s progress, whether Minho admits it or not. Chan can’t blame him for being scared, but their relationship has turned into a whole different thing ever since Minho decided to change for the best. He’s still a bit self conscious and hyper aware when Chan touches a delicate topic, but over all the road to success gets quicker when they’re together. He’s proud, and he can’t help but notice Minho’s hard work every time something out of usual happens.

Chan is typing out a new song on his computer when it happens for the first time. He’s active, hands working fast as his minds wanders away, nothing specifical running through his head as he stares blankly at the screen. He thinks about mundane things, something closer to him than most of his thoughts, and flashes of Minho run through his mind easily. They’ve been talking so much he’s sure Minho can’t stand to hear him calling anymore, his phone almost always silent for anyone but him, and it tickles Chan’s heart just a bit. Talking to him is like being glazed by sunlight, warm yellow dancing in his eyes when Minho smiles, heart resting for the first time in so long. In his mind, he’s glued to Minho all the time, sun and moon mixing up and creating a color of their own. He’s almost done with his work when Minho calls him, a different ringtone warning him that it was his call. Chan almost runs to pick it up where it lays on his table, small smile spreading into his face.

“Hyung!” he hears Minho’s voice through the small device. “Are you busy this weekend?”

“No, Min. Why?” Chan already expects what he’s going to ask, but his heart still flutters in the few seconds Minho keeps quiet before speaking up again.

“Doyouwanttotgotothecountrysidewithme?” Minho asks quickly, voice breathless as he almost raps his question. Cute.

Minho is quite careless when it comes to surprises. He’s been hiding travel papers underneath his pillow and not even bothering to delete his search history on Chan’s computer, his latest additions being “romantic things to do in a trip”, what makes Chan giggle every time he remembers it. He feels whipped, like his previous high school self when he crushed on a senior who played the guitar very well. Minho always makes him feel like a high school sweetheart.

“Yes, Minho. I’d love to.” He agrees, forcing himself not to laugh over the way Minho sighs in relief. “Where are you?”

“I’m, uh, I’m in dance class right now. Teacher gave us a break.” Chan hears a loud noise coming from Minho’s side, as if he just tripped over something big. Minho curses, and the older can’t contain his laughter anymore.

He giggles. “Come over after you’re done, I’ll need help to pack my bags.”

“Sure! I’ll be there! I have to go, hyung, bye!” Minho exclaims, sounding a bit embarrassed but still cheerful as he gives no time for Chan to greet him goodbye.

It’s astounding, how much time they spent together in the last few days. Minho hasn’t been kidding when he said he was going to make it up for the time lost - They see each other every day and are always in touch, almost attached to the hip when with friends and even more so when alone. Chan feels silly when he listens to the love songs Minho sends him, but it’s the best type of ignorance, when he chooses to forget the dirty parts of the world to walk in the clean and bright spot Minho is to his life. He’s consciously letting himself go in the karaoke nights and early morning talks, in the small bar they spent so many dawns laughing and in the way they leaned on each other while watching the sun rise over the hill. Minho has been making every day feel like friday night.

Minho comes home to an unexpected hug and all the kisses Chan forgot to give him when they were apart. When they’re on the kitchen and Chan is cooking dinner, after they pack their bags and Minho has his wet hair covering his eyes from his shower, the younger speaks up about a topic they’ve been dancing around ever since things got somehow serious.

“You know what I realized yesterday?” He asks, eyes trained on Chan’s back as the older cuts onions.

Chan hums. “What?”

“That I never got to ask you to be my boyfriend. Y’know, after we discovered the whole soulmate thing and all.” His tone is unusually cautious, watching Chan curiously. The other turns his back to his task, eyebrows raised as a smile faintly spreaded over his face. Minho had a towel wrapped around his neck and his black hair was a untamed, wet mess, so domestic Chan almost forgot what they were talking about.

“Oh, yes. Definitely a very important thing.” Chan jokes, but he kinds of finds it endearing too.

“Ehm, yeah, kinda- To me, it kinda means more than soulmates now.” The dancer shies away from his glance, eyes suddenly anywhere but in Chan’s.

“Is it so?” the older pushes further, playful smile on his face showing how much he loves seeing Minho stumble over his words.

“Yes.” Minho sighs deeply. “What do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Chanie!” Minho whines, annoyed. He takes a deep breath again, looking more confident as he gets up from his seat, moving dangerously closer. “Do you… By any means… Want to be my boyfriend?”

Chan laughs, eyes crinkling up and dimples so deep they could easily be the sea, not intimidated at all by Minho’s sudden proximity. “I thought we were over that already. Aren’t soulmates a level up or so from just boyfriends?”

“No, no. I think boyfriends are more serious than soulmates.” The younger jokes, smile cheeky as he takes one of Chan’s hands on his and gets down on one knee, eyebrows raised. “So? What is your answer?”

Chan looks down at him, Minho’s antics being old news to his heart. He still manages to feel sweeped off his feet, anyways, and that is something he’ll never understand. The answer is as easy as the words to his favorite song. “Yes.”

And they go from there.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a really big fic and i know i said twink dressing 101 was the longest i ever wrote in english but yeah. 12k is my official record now. its amazing how much confidence i got in writing even if its not my first language, but most of it its because of the lovely people who inspired me to write and guided me through all the doubts and fears i had while speaking english. so camila, natalia, miguel, twt mutuals and honestly all of my friends, if ur reading this, i love you more than all those 12k words can say!!!!!!!
> 
> also. if youre a reader and youre interested in interacting w me through twitter, i just created an account where i plan to use english more~~ the user is @3rachaes! id be really happy if i could talk more to the people who read my fics lol i always get emotional thinking about someone reading my silly love stories. thats it now, ill stop ranting
> 
> thank you for reading this, i hope u enjoyed it!!!!


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